The spring is coming by a many signs
The trays are up, the hedges broken down
That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines
Like some old antique fragment weathered brown
And where suns peep, in every sheltered place
The little early bu*tercups unfold
A glittering star or two--till many trace
The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold
And then a little lamb bolts up behind
The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe
And then another, sheltered from the wind
Lies all his length as dead--and lets me go
Close bye and never stirs but baking lies
With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.